


Peering

by Mandibles



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: M/M, Masturbation, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-09
Updated: 2011-08-09
Packaged: 2017-10-22 10:38:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/237185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mandibles/pseuds/Mandibles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An old fill of mine from the DA:O meme. Sten finds the Warden spending quality time with the person he loves the most.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Peering

Sten’s heard legends about the Wardens, about how they battled waves of darkspawn and ended Blights. He expected them to be levelheaded. Instead, their leader is a flighty and brash Saarebas who slipped into the forest without saying a word. He grunts, irritated, as he trudges through the leaves, hunting out the human.

  
He stops.

  
Rustling. Beyond a collection of bushes.

  
Sten instinctively clutches Asala, draws her out as he crouches low and creeps towards the disturbance. It might be no more than a rabbit, but it is better to be safe than sorry.

  
Past a tangle of brush and leaves, there is a small clearing, empty save for a haggard tree. As Sten nears it, he realizes that the sound isn’t so much rustling as it is squelching. And the culprit isn’t a rabbit or even a squirrel; it is the Warden, leaning back against the tree, writhing.

  
Writhing very much like a Mabari in heat.

  
Sten stops his stalk to look on in interest.

  
He can just make out the face from where he stands, thin lips parted for huffing breaths; robes are bunched to the human’s hips, settled in the dirt; a pair of spindly legs are splayed, glowing a pale pink in the nearing dawn; both arms are working between them, furiously.

  
Sten resists the sigh welling in his throat. He is unsurprised. Normally, he would have no qualms about interrupting the human’s distracting activity.

  
But . . . but he can’t quite bring himself to do so, nor to turn away. The way the legs tremble, the toes curl. The way the legs shift, giving Sten a view of the eager, pink prick and the fingers delving into his arse.

  
Vashedan.

  
He scowls, sheaths Asala, settles in the shadows, and watches. Weeks of traveling with humans have . . . changed him.

  
The hands are relentless, stroking and plunging and tweaking and rubbing. They are the hands of someone frustrated, someone angry, someone who restrained himself every day.

  
Sten understands.

  
The Warden comes with a word on his lips—a name, a curse; Sten could never tell the difference with this language. He arches, taut as a violin string, then slumps, a whimper escaping. Bliss flutters over his flushed face and Sten releases a breath he didn’t realize he was holding.

  
Silence.

  
“Warden.”

  
The mage gasps and puts his robes back to rights before meekly glancing around the tree at his intruder.

  
“Sten! I—I—”

  
Sten isn’t in the mood for the human’s babbling; they’ve lost enough time as it is. (And Sten has all ready made quite a fine fool of himself.)

  
“We are ready to move on. Your fellow Warden is anxious to retrieve the Ashes.”

  
There is shuffling, then the Warden approaches. He looks relatively decent, save for the flush to his face and the beads of sweat clinging to the stubble on his cheeks.

  
Their eyes meet; Daylen’s breath hitches.

  
“Right. Let’s . . . let’s go.”

  
Sten leads, pointedly ignoring the heated gaze the Warden burns into his back.

  
Dammit.


End file.
